


Not Your Handymen

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home repair is never as easy as you think it's going to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Your Handymen

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers:  
> Not my characters.  
> No disrespect is intended or money is made.  
> No beta, no brit-pick.

While he had his turn in the shower, Sherlock decided it was Mike Stamford’s fault. This would never have happened if he hadn’t been bragging to Mrs. Hudson about the wall-papering he’d had done last month. He’d planted the idea in her head. Between it being her turn to host the book group next month, an old friend from Florida coming to visit at Christmas time, and the friendly rivalry between her and Mrs. Turner (new light fixtures back in July), nothing would do but that she have the common area updated. Immediately. Never had paper samples been so rapidly or thoroughly poured over, tested in various degrees of natural and artificial light, and purchased. Within a week of her deciding that it simply must be done, the foyer of 221 Baker Street was stocked with brushes, buckets, and a rented ladder. All because Mike Stamford couldn’t keep his mouth shut. 

In the sitting room, John settled onto the couch with the heating pad and decided to blame Greg. It would have just been a matter of avoiding the decorators for a few days, if Greg hadn’t gotten some mid-life bee in his bonnet and decided that they should do the work themselves. But he’d been adamant about not hiring someone to do a job they could handle themselves. Greg had insisted, promised John it would be a piece of cake, and booked himself a couple of days off to complete the job. 

Also in the sitting room, listening to Mrs. Hudson make tea, Greg made up his mind that all of this was really John’s fault. If John had dressed more appropriately for the task at hand, everything would have come off without a hitch. Seriously, how had he imagined he’d be able to do any real work in those jeans and that tee-shirt? And why did he even own a pair of work-boots? Okay, fine, so the snug fit hadn’t been an impediment to getting the work done. John had been perfectly able to bend over, even with the faded denim straining so delightfully. Completely capable of climbing the scarred metal rungs, even if his flexing shoulders had threatened to burst the lightweight black cotton. Quite willing to stretch his arms over his head when he was just a bit too short to reach to the top of the wall, although it must have been a bit chilly when the shirt popped free and left his waist bare. If he’d dressed in just about anything else, Greg and Sherlock wouldn’t have indulged their ‘drop dead sexy’ handyman fantasies by sending him up the ladder. Wouldn’t have encouraged him to stretch just that tiny bit further. Certainly, Greg wouldn’t have been too distracted to brace the ladder properly when the ‘drop’ part came to pass.

“This is your fault, you know,” He glared at the other man around the ice-filled towel he held against one eye.

“What? How is this my fault? I said I shouldn’t be the one on the ladder. Didn’t I say that?” John resettled the heating pad and conspicuously refused to look across at where Sherlock, wrapped in his dressing gown, was setting a bag of frozen peas on his elevated ankle. “I said we should hire paper hangers. I even offered to call the guys Stamford used. But _someone_ thought it was just as easy to do it ourselves. _Someone_ thought that papering their kitchen that one time 20 years ago meant they’d be able to do a two story entryway.” The glare was transfered to Greg. “Which begs the question of why _that_ someone, the one of us with actual experience, wasn’t up the ladder? Why was it me? I’ve never redecorated anything in my life.”

“I was holding the ladder. Sherlock, explain to John why I was holding the ladder.” Fast talking was called for; giving voice to the real reason would just get everyone in trouble. Even if Greg believed he’d worn those clothes on purpose. Saved them deliberately for just such an occasion. 

“Because we were both enjoying the view when he overextended his reach. Obvious.” He ignored the cutting look Greg aimed at him. “My trousers are unsalvageable, but there are some unique spatter patterns. I suppose I could cut swatches to make a reference notebook. Do you supposed the manufacturer would share the adhesive formulation with me? On a strict non-disclosure basis, of course.”

“Never mind that, genius. Did you get all the paste out of your hair?”

Mrs. Hudson came through the kitchen door in time to hear the question. “Bend your head down, Sherlock”. When he simply stared at her, she set down her tea tray and clasped his head in both hands, twisting it about as she examined his damp locks. 

“Yes, I think he did.” She answered Greg’s question and let go Sherlock’s head, swatting his hand away when he reached for a plate. “That one isn’t for you.”

“But those are the last two custard creams.”

“You didn’t fall off a ladder. Custard creams are for John.”

John smiled beatifically and reached out his hand for the coveted biscuits. “I always knew you loved me best, Mrs. H.”

The corners of her mouth twitched as she mock-sternly corrected, “I don’t know that I love any of you. The mess you’ve made!” She passed around mugs of tea, checked under Greg’s ice pack. “That’s going to be a lovely black eye, dear. I expect you to tell the truth, when they ask about it at work.” She flipped the bag of peas on Sherlock’s ankle. “You’re to stay off that for awhile. I’m sure John will agree with me. No, John, you stay put. Honestly. Up a ladder and stretching to reach. Lucky you didn’t break your neck.” She clicked her tongue, plumped a pillow and handed it to him with a wicked look. “Not that you didn’t deserve it, tormenting everyone with eyes to see you in those jeans.”

She ignored their scandalized looks and gathered up the hamper into which they’d tossed the washable casualties. “I’ll just get this started while I clean things up for Mike’s paper hangers.” She smiled at Greg’s indignation, John’s wry acceptance. “You didn’t think I understood the difference between papering a kitchen and papering a stair hall? I booked them a week ago. They’ll be here in an hour.”


End file.
